I call the second name.
The third.
The fourth. “It’s going live in thirty minutes.”
The fifth and sixth. The seventh and eighth.
The ninth. “Your deal was to bury the headline about Moffy,” Andrea DelCorte from Celebrity Crush tells me. “You said nothing about protecting yourself, and I can’t strike a deal with you when it’s not an exclusive story. It’s going to break in fifteen minutes by us or by someone else.”
You’re not superhuman, Connor. The world will not change for you.
I can’t stop this.
I can’t prevent a barrage of questioning and speculation. I don’t call the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth media outlet. I scramble to make different ones.
I clutch the phone firmly to my ear, but my heart pumps deeper, louder. As soon as the line clicks, I say, “Rose…” I lose my thoughts in her name. My throat sears, and I think—I missed a link somewhere. Was it Theo? Was it Jonathan Hale? Was it Frederick? I fucking block out the how. I have to, but I know the how is stampeding the real pain—the worse thoughts.
The ones that attempt to barrel into me.
Rose will be dragged into this by her ankles, suffocating beneath someone else’s rising tide, and the best I can do is hold her while we go under. I’ve never imagined myself drowning before. Not like this. And I’ve never imagined I’d have these two choices: drown apart or drown together.
Together.
Always.
I would never let Rose suffer through this alone.
“Is Jane okay?” she asks off my silence, concern bleeding into her words. I hear the shuffle of papers. She’s already standing, I’m sure.
“I need you to come home,” I tell her. “Quickly.” Paparazzi will swarm Hale Co., Rose’s boutique, Superheroes & Scones, tracking down everyone close to me.
“What is it?”
“Drive safe,” I say, stoic and resolute. My voice belongs to the man who needs a therapist to tell him how he feels.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She hangs up on me, sensing the severity, even if my voice carries nearly nothing.
I dial the second number.
“Lo,” I say. “I need you to come home.” I need you is a phrase I almost never use with anyone, especially not him. He needs me.
Everyone needs me.
“I have a meeting in ten minutes. Should I cancel or…”
“Can you rework your schedule? This is important.”
He doesn’t ask why. His loyalty stems from a real, honest and genuine friendship, the first one I’ve ever truly had. And I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that my past is about to ruin it.
“Sure.” I hear him begin to walk. “I just need to know if it’s Lil.”
“No,” I tell him. “It’s about me. I’ll see you soon.” I hang up, dialing the next number.
“Hey, Connor,” Lily says over chatter that sounds like her employees at Superheroes & Scones. “I was just about to call! How’s Moffy doing?”
“Can you come home?” I ask, knowing I have to explain a little more for her and a lot more for my next call. “Something’s about to play on the news about me, and it’s better if you’re not in public when it happens.”
“Okay…” Concern drapes her tone like curtains closing on a comedy show. “How long do I have?”
“You should leave now.”
“On my way.”
My last call. The line rings three times before it clicks. “Hey,” Ryke answers in a heavy breath. He went on a run with Daisy and their husky, but a “run” for Ryke sometimes turns into an all-day affair, time passed leisurely and peacefully, which is why he texted me earlier.
“Where are you?” I ask, refreshing the Celebrity Crush site. No updates.
“Down the fucking street,” he says. “Everything okay? Is it my brother?”
“No. It’s not about Lo or Daisy. It’s not Lily either.” He has to know it’s about me now or Rose.
“I’ll be at the house in less than two minutes.” His sympathy surprises me but also awakens me. I’ve never, in my life, needed Ryke’s concern. Not even for a moment.
I shut off the phone and wait for my lawyers to give me good news that I’m certain won’t ever arrive. Moffy and Jane have fallen asleep on beanbags in their playpen. I lean back against the couch for the first time. I’m left alone with silence and my raging, turntable thoughts.
I’m attracted to people.
To the words they speak, to the actions they take, to their full-bodied mannerisms and soulful gaits. I am attracted to people. To impassioned hearts that beat out of sync, the ones that skip a measure, heard in hushed places and violent spaces—I am attracted to people.
There is no other truth I can yell as loud as this one. And it won’t help. They’ll want a label to understand me, and I’ve never truly defined myself with any.
Nothing will fix this but a lie.
It’s not a lie to one person, which is easier to swallow. It’s a declaration to millions of people. It’s condemning a belief that I’ve lived by, one that makes me me.
So what the fuck do I do now?
The door swings open, and the white husky pants as she tiredly walks to the window nook, lying on her fleece pillow.
Ryke emerges from the foyer with Daisy. He tosses his backpack aside. “Are they asleep?” he asks quietly, gesturing to the playpen.
I nod once and refresh the computer, check my phone for texts. Nothing new yet. I think I have five minutes. The sky seems to darken outside, clouds rolling over the sun, most likely.
I stand as Ryke nears with Daisy. I open my mouth to explain, but I falter, my stomach overturning.
“I’ll get you some water,” Daisy starts.
“No,” I tell her.
Ryke runs his hand through his hair, slightly damp from his run. “Maybe you should take a fucking seat?”
Daisy nods in agreement, rocking on the balls of her feet.
I frown and scrutinize her overly concerned expression that matches her boyfriend’s, no shades of confusion. “Do you know me?” I wonder. It’s a vague statement, but they’re both intelligent enough to understand what I’m implying. They could’ve deduced what this was about if they had one single fact: I’ve slept with men before.
She nods once.
I don’t understand… “Both of you sit down,” I order.
They take a seat on the coffee table together, cautious and respectful of my feelings. I stay towering above them.
“Who told you?” I ask.
Daisy twists the bottom of her lime-green tank top, restless. “You did.”
I cover my eyes with my hand. “No.” She was sleepwalking. There was the smallest, barest chance that she’d remember the things I said when she woke up.
I drop my hand, my eyes burning. Maybe there was a place inside of me that wanted her to remember, and that’s why I took the risk.
“I’m sorry,” Daisy whispers, her face contorting in guilt. “It wasn’t my secret to share, but it was weighing on me—and I knew Ryke could keep it too.”
I dazedly sit back down on the couch, my eyes flitting up to meet Ryke’s.
He knew this entire time that I’d slept with a guy before, and he never said a thing. He never changed around me. Never pressured me to explain or elaborate. Never felt uncomfortable. I think back to St. Patrick’s Day. He shared a bed with me, and he never acted differently.